If I Could Dream
by Manicies
Summary: Steve was always a very creative child, bedridden as he was by his sicknesses. His parents loved as he laid there, telling them about alien worlds and evil organisations, and the wonderful characters that inhabited his mind. They were a little concerned that, despite how much he loved them, he never got an imaginary friend, like everyone else his age. Imagine their terror when they
1. Chapter 1

"Ok, honey. I'm going out. You have your glass of water and your inhaler on your desk, as well as some paper and pencils." Sarah Rogers said softly, stroking back the hair of her son, who gave her a weak smile, face flushed from the flu he was once again suffering from. Steve nodded, cuddling further under his thick blanket, closing his eyes for a moment, before watching as his mother left the room.

She had to leave on a regular basis, constantly searching for employment for herself. Steve's father, Joseph, had a job, but it was very low paying, barely enough to pay the rent on the tiny flat they resided in. The paintjob was shoddy, their electronics barely worked, and they could only just get enough food to eat, but Steve didn't mind the peeling paint or the barren walls. Because he covered them in his art.

Steve loved to draw. Even as a young child, he would always go right for the craft table whenever they went anywhere. Now, his parents had saved up and bought him a proper art pencil with lead refills, and he'd never been happier. His dad brought him spare paper from work, and Steve didn't even mind the writing on the back, he still filled up the white space with scrawling scribbles from the depths of his mind. The child had managed to come up with an entire world, filled with villains and heros like something you would read in comic, his dad said once, causing him to grin wide. Steve would love to be able to draw comics for a living. He loved to draw and he loved making up characters and stories.

After a brief nap, he woke up to the sound of heavy traffic, blaring horns and sputtering engines filling the emptiness of the house. Feeling much better, Steve decided to sit up, shivering as the thick duvet slid off his scrawny form. He reached over, spindly fingers grasping as the paper, and he brought it close, already starting to scribble.

Whenever he was well enough to go to school, which was once in a blue moon, he would see all of the children with these strange, fantastical creatures called 'imaginary friends'. They looked more exciting than anything he had ever seen; so many colours and limbs and faces and eyes. Some looked big and menacing, with fangs and claws and bat-wings, whereas others were adorable, with big shiny eyes, and cute noises, and tiny forms. When Steve asked where they came from, he only got weird looks.

"What do you mean?" They said.  
"You don't know where they come from?" A child scoffed at him derisively, as if he should know and was an idiot for not.

When he asked his parents, they said that children create them. From their _thoughts_. The very idea astounded him. Upon further clarification, they told him that some children create these fake people in their minds to be their friend, and then they became real. Apparently it was normal but they didn't want to bring it up in case he felt bad for not having one.

Quite the contrary. Steve felt _amazing._ He had never heard of this, never knew of it, never realised the potential. Suddenly he was faced with overwhelming possibilities. Out of every character he created, every monster, every God, every being, he could make any and all of them real. He could actually make his dreams come true, and the very idea of it nearly made him cry.

But no matter how hard he thought, focused, tried, his bedroom remained empty of everything except himself and the sketches on the walls. This, like his parents predicted, did make him upset, causing his sicknesses to flare up and keeping him bedridden for weeks on end while he recovered. It's not as if he had any real reason to leave anyway; he was never at school long enough to make any friends, particularly as they were all busy with their own.

Dismayed by the idea that perhaps he was broken, that he couldn't make them, he went reclusive, barely speaking even to his own parents as he buried himself in his fictional worlds. If he couldn't make the characters real, he could at least make them feel real.

He had recently made a new character, one he was focusing on heavily, trying to flesh him out much more than any he had made before. He was tall, nearly 6 feet (to his tiny frame and young mind, that was gigantic), with long brown hair and big strong muscles. He was a big powerful Assassin who used to work for a big company but left because he found out they were making him do the wrong thing. He was big, and tough, but he was really nice and kind, and loves doing things to help people. He had a...a..oh, a metal arm! That would look really cool. He had a metal arm, because..because he fell off a train and his arm got hurt so they gave him a really cool robot arm to replace it.

Grinning at the new knowledge he had of this character, he erased the sleeve he had drawn on, giving him slightly wobbly robotic plates instead. "That looks so cool..."

Anyway, he wore this really cool black outfit, with..with straps everywhere (he wanted a challenge) and always had knives and guns and everything on him, but he would never hurt a good person. He started off as a good guy, then became a bad guy, then went back to being a good guy again!

He was super strong, and fast; he could rip cars apart with his bare hands, especially his metal one, and he could lift buses and-

Steve's thoughts continued on in such a fashion as he drew, using up pages and pages of drawing this new man, both in actions stances with long, thin knives bared, to leaning against a wall and laughing. Even if it didn't translate well to his not-quite-mastered artwork, Steve had the pefect picture of what this man would look like. The cleft in his chin, the slight dimple in his cheeks when he smiled, how his hair would look when he woke up, how it would pull back over his head, the shape of his jaw, the twinkle of his baby-blue eyes...

The scrawny child was so lost in his own thoughts that he was completely oblivious to the fact that he was no longer alone until he heard someone clear their throat. Jumping nearly a foot out of his own skin, his trembling hands dropped the paper (not the pencil, that meant far too much to him) and he stared up at the intruder, already starting to shiver from fright and confusion.

Only to pause, his own eyes widening as he took in the sight of the man in front of him. Dark clothes, cleft chin, brown hair, blue eyes, metal arm-

"Oh my god." He breathed out, staring him down. The man blinked a few times. A huge grin slowly spread over Steve's face and he could've leapt for joy.

"You're real! You're alive and you're real!" The boy squealed, lunging forward and wrapping his arms tight around the man's waist, causing him to grunt and stumble a little, hand bracing at the child to keep him upright. It took a few moments of him blinking hard, frowning slightly, before the man spoke. "..I...I am real..."

"Oh I knew it! I knew that I could make an imaginary friend someday!"

After quite a long hug, Steve pulled back, patting for the metal-armed man to sit beside him, and he did so slowly, almost as if he was in a daze. "Oh man, this is going to be great! I can show you my drawings, and we can go places together when I'm feeling better, and we might even be able to play games, oh this is so cool! Oh my parents are going to be so happy too, and you'll love them!" He started to ramble, and the man actually smiled a little as he listened to him, nodding slightly. However, when Steve paused for breath, he raised a hand. "Hey. Before we..before we do anything...do I have a name?"

This, out of all things, was what brought Steve up short. Rifling through his mind, he realised that, despite everything he'd made up for his character (even a codename – The Winter Soldier sounded so cool), all his habits and everything, he had failed to give him a human name. Pushing aside his internal squeal at how awesome his voice sounded, the child frowned a little, looking him over. "You...your name is Bucky. Does Bucky sound alright?"

The imaginary friend considered it for a few moments, before he smiled, nodding.

"Yeah. That sounds alright."


	2. Chapter 2

Steve spent hours babbling away excitedly to the imaginary friend sitting beside him, Bucky smiling warmly down at the child nuzzled into his side for warmth as the blond spoke heatedly to him about all the different worlds he had created. Bucky didn't have the heart to tell him that he already knew of quite a bit of it, having been crafted from the depths of this universe anyway. He had his metal arm, cool to the touch, wrapped softly around his shoulders, almost pulling Steve onto his lap. As he listened to him speak, his blue eyes investigated the room around them, focusing on the hasty, scribbled artworks taped over the peeling wallpaper in an attempt of redecoration. They depicted, albeit childishly, tall, hulking figures in bright outfits, with armour and robots and aliens, and it was very clear that they were the idolising figures of a small child wanting more out of life.

Smiling wistfully, he suddenly cut Steve off by tussling his hair, looking down at him.

"You're pretty scrawny for someone who makes up so many buff men, you know that?" He huffed, with a hint of amusement. Steve's face scrunched in annoyance.

"Shut up! I am not scrawny, you're scrawny."

Bucky just snorted, Steve getting even more indignant. "I'll hit you if you say that again!" And as if to prove a point, he raised his small fist, Bucky laughing as he moved back, hands raised. "Alright, alright alright, I promise I won't call you scrawny again."

"Good." Steve harrumphed, quite pleased with himself. Bucky muffled another laugh, sitting back against the wall and staring at the ceiling. More pictures. Did he really have nothing better to do than lay in bed and draw all day?

"Hey...Steve?" He looked at him softly, and the blond blinked, looking up at him.  
"Yeah, Bucky?"

"Why do you draw so much? Don't you do anything else?"

However, at the sight of Steve's face falling, he hurried to correct his mistake.  
"Oh, shit- I mean shoot, uh..I'm sorry, I didn't mean to hurt your feelings, I was just curious..."

"No, it's fine..." Steve sighed softly, fiddling with the pencil in his bony hands. "I don't really have anything else to do, that's all."

At Bucky's silence, he continued.

"We don't really have a lot of money. Dad brings home a lot of paper from his work so that I can keep drawing, and my mum bought me this pencil and a lot of refills for my birthday. Anyway, I really love drawing. It's a lot of fun."

"..Oh." Bucky understood immediately, frowning slightly as he sat back. "Well that's a shame. I hope I'm not intruding too much by being here, then."

"No!" Steve burst out, suddenly hugging him tight, and Bucky snorted, hugging back.

"It's awesome you're here, I'm really glad you are, my parents will love you!"

"You sure? It seems like another mouth to feed would really be the last thing they need, of all things..." Bucky murmured, still unsure but a little swayed. Steve just gave him an even more determined look.

"Yes! Positive. They'll totally be happy, they've been wanting me to have an Imaginary Friend, they'll be so excited for me that it won't even matter!"

He took a few minutes to consider this, staring down at the clearly pig-headed child – what had he gotten into – before he gave him a grin, wrapping the metal arm around him and bringing him into his muscular side.

"You really are a lonely little squirt, aren't you?"

Steve's cry of protest could be heard even outside the apartment, followed by deep peals of laughter from the imaginary friend as he was pummelled by the small fists of his new best friend.

This cry was, unfortunately, also heard by Steve's mother, who was just arriving back home, and she froze at the doorway, key held barely inches away from the scratched lock. Her face paled in horror at the laughter and anguished cries, thoughts of burglars and murderers breaking in to harm her sickly son.

At this stage, still oblivious to the terrified presence outside, Bucky suddenly pinned Steve down on his back, laughing evilly as he dragged and danced his fingers down the child's sensitive sides, causing him to thrash and squeal.

"NO! NO STOP! STOP IT, STOP!"

Swallowing back her fear, Sarah clicked the lock, pushing the door open and stepping in as quietly as she could, moving towards the phone. However, it wasn't silent enough, the brunet freezing in place. Steve blinked, looking up at him.

"..Hey, Bucky, what's-" But he was cut off by the man hissing and clapping his flesh hand over his mouth. Squealing in shock, he gripped at his wrist, staring up at him in growing fear.

Steve knew exactly what must have been going on, mind stretching back into the stories he'd created in his own universe; Bucky was an assassin, highly trained, reflexes like a ninja- oh man it was probably his mom or something oh noooo no no no his best friend was about to kill his mom bad bad bad.

He struggled a little, but Bucky clearly misinterpreted, hissing at him a little, and he pulled out a knife with his metal hand _where did that come from where did that come from that's not at all good nooooooo._

Sliding off the bed, all of his snarky teasing and friendly demeanour gone, Bucky stalked for the door in a low crouch, thick hunting knife clutched tightly in his robotic appendage. Steve scrambled after him, landing on the ground with an undignified squeal and a loud thump. The man barely noticed, boots making almost no sound on the wooden floorboards as he almost slid out of the room.

Sarah remained oblivious to the unfortunate danger she was in, grabbing the phone and heading for the room in which she'd heard the last sound. She desperately hoped her son was alright, finger hovering over the final '1' for the emergency services.

Hearing the footfalls, Bucky pressed himself into the doorway, gaze icy cold as the strange woman slowly stepped passed him. Taking in a slow breath, he raised the knife, stepping forward and-

"MOM! LOOK OUT!" Steve yelled, stumbling from his bedroom, thin form still tangled up in the sheets in quite an undignified manner. She jolted, spinning around, and gasped when she saw Bucky, stumbling back and hitting the doorframe.

He blinked hard, freezing in place when he heard the bellow, and the icy look melted away from his face. Hand sagging slightly, he looked towards Steve, then back at Sarah, eyes widening.

"Oh. Shit. I mean-I mean shoot, shoot, I'm sorry!" He couldn't fumble to drop the knife quickly enough, hands raising in defence as Sarah stared at him, gaping in horror.

"Oh God. I'm so sorry. I thought you were an intruder, I am so sorry!" Bucky rushed out. Realising she was probably thinking the same thing, he continued.

"I'm Bucky, my name is Bucky, I'm Steve's imaginary friend and I swear I'm not an intruder or anything else!"

Sarah paused. She blinked her blue eyes slowly, watching Bucky. "...You're...imaginary?"

He nodded quickly, wanting to assure her that he wasn't a threat. Sarah just slowly looked between Steve and Bucky, blinking slowly.

"...Oh."

And down she went.


End file.
